


Improvisation

by LearnedFoot



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: (Or is it?), F/M, Identity Porn, Implied Doctor/Master Feelings, POV The Master (Doctor Who), Revenge Sex, The Master Has Issues, The Year That Never Was (Doctor Who)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:33:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25057768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: The Master has to live through the year that never was...again. He has a plan for a different ending.
Relationships: Martha Jones/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 34
Collections: Little Black Dress Exchange 2020





	Improvisation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheseusInTheMaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/gifts).



> I had a lot of fun with this! I hope you enjoy.

He knew she would come, eventually. That’s the point, isn’t it? Walk the whole world, even this American backwater he calls—

(The word _home_ shatters in his mouth just to think it. Not that.)

This backwater he calls temporary shelter. Empty woods where he can avoid the many roving eyes that belong to the version of himself currently sitting in 10 Downing Street. The self who didn’t kill the Doctor when he had the chance, who allowed defeat to be snatched from the jaws of victory by a single tenacious human armed with nothing more than words. Smug and foolish.

He won’t be making that mistake again.

He follows the eager radio chatter networking across the state as the stranger with a message of hope makes her way from town to town until she finds herself in the one in which, technically, his temporary residence resides. Not that he’s there often, but he does dip in for groceries and supply parts; enough to be known. The people there think he’s bit odd, yes, but nice enough. Reclusive, but safe. They’ll vouch for him, when he offers his place as the best option for a fugitive on the run from the eyes in the sky.

He smiles to himself as the radio crackles on, announcing her imminent arrival. He’s waited for this show to begin for a very long time.

***

He watches as she tells the story His skin itches in the heat of the windowless church basement—apparently the best hiding spot the town can scrape together. It’s pathetic. Lucky for them they have him, with a shield in his pocket strong enough to keep prying eyes blind for the time being.

It’s in his own interest, of course. No need to catch the attention of his past self. There are enough paradoxes abound; one more might bring the whole thing crashing down. Which is the idea, but on his own terms. His _present_ terms.

Martha is enthralling, he’ll give her that. Enthralling—and enthralled. She speaks with the passion of a true believer; the passion of someone who loves the Doctor, and therefore is stupid enough to think they know the Doctor.

A laugh threatens to escape the confines of his throat. Even the Doctor does not know the Doctor. Only the Master does, now, and that’s a secret he’s holding close to his chest.

The laugh stops threatening and does indeed escape, barely more than a snicker. He covers it as a cough, but her eyes flick to him, noticing. Questioning.

 _Do you recognize me?_ he wonders. _Can you see beyond my face?_ No, of course not. Even the Doctor wasn’t able to do that, and the Doctor isn’t an idiot human. The Doctor knows him better than anyone and yet he’d _fooled her_ , bested her.

(And then she’d bested him, but those tables are about to be turned again. She didn’t think through all the possibilities leaving him behind opened up. A fatal mistake. She never did know what to do with rage.)

He curves his lips into the obsequious, apologetic smile of agent O, of Adam Smith and George Jenkins and all the other useless people he’s pretended to be since the Doctor stranded him on this disgusting lump of a planet.

Martha meets his smile with one of her own.

Humans. So easy.

***

He finds her after; waits his turn as she speaks to resistance fighters and town elders. All the people tripling over their own feet to take the lead.

He interrupts as a local Quaker minister and a doddering schoolteacher argue over who is better equipped to host her. “If I may be so bold, I think I can be of service,” he says, in the American accent the townspeople have come to expect from him.

They all turn at once, startled by his presence, his offer.

“I’m sorry, and you are?” It’s Martha who asks—not unkindly, but brusque. She’ll give him pleasantries, but she doesn’t have time for interruption.

“Adam,” he says, giving the bland, nothing of a name he’s chosen for this place. “And, with no offense to the good people of the town, I think I can safely say my humble abode is the most isolated—and dare I venture, safest—location of the lot.”

Just as he predicted, the townspeople can’t argue with that. How easy humans are to mold. Prod here, implanted idea there—a single year, and they’re putty. Martha, though, is not so easy to convince. It’s there in the way she draws back, eyes narrowing. “That’s very generous, but I’ve already made arrangements, and—”

“Walk with me, for a minute,” he cuts in, before she can get to the no. She’s always had backbone; her mind will be easier to change before it’s made up. “Please. We can stay in sight of your friends.”

She hesitates, fingers grazing a deep pocket in her pants. What does she keep there? A knife? A radio? Whatever it is must give her comfort, because she nods. “Fine. A minute.”

He walks her down a hall. Not far—no need to spook her—but far enough that they won’t be overheard.

As soon as they come to a stop, Martha moves away from him, crossing her arms. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I hope you can appreciate that in my position, it’s safest to stick to my plan.”

“Of course, of course. Except I think you should know, my name’s not Adam,” the Master says, slipping into his true voice. 

She jolts back, hand going to that pocket. Knife, then. Or some kind of weapon, anyway. He immediately raises his hands, as unassuming as she is aggressive.

“The name is agent O. Former MI6.” The old disguise settles on like an old jacket that never fit quite right, familiar in its discomfort. At least he knows all the tricks. “Retired here when I saw things going south in the government. I never trusted Saxon.” If she asks around, that timing of his story will work out close enough with his actual arrival in this town. “Not that I saw this coming, of course. I’m smart, not a prophet. But when I say my house is the safest in town, I don’t just mean because of the location.”

Her hand still hovers over the pocket. “This could be a trick.”

He resists a smile. Right again.

“Here.” He pulls a badge out of his pocket, tossing it at her quickly, before she can worry he’s going for a weapon. He screams _not a threat_ with every inch of his body. She scrutinizes the badge, turning it front to back, holding it close in the dim of the basement. It’s a forgery, of course, but perfect, and when she looks up, he knows she’s sold.

Oh, it will take another round of questions, and probably another after that, but she’s a smart woman. She knows a good deal when she sees it, and he has put a lot of effort into making himself into the best deal she’s seen in months.

***

Martha’s silent as the Master drives them up the long road that winds its way into wooded mountains outside town. Her eyes stay fixed firmly out the window. Tired of talking, probably, after talking for so long. But that’s no fun.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he muses, as he doesn’t realize she’s watching for danger rather than appreciating the foliage. “You’re a few weeks too early to get the full show, but you can start to see the reds and oranges. It’s glorious. Part of why I picked Maine. Always loved the descriptions, growing up. Trees on fire.”

Martha doesn’t take her eyes off the road. “How far is it?”

“Another twenty minutes. I told you, safety first. That madman won’t be able to find you here.”

He chuckles at the joke she doesn’t understand. That gets her to look at him, shoulders tensing like a caged animal. She’s actually quite smart, for a human. She could be brilliant if she learned to trust that nagging tick in the back of her mind telling her something isn’t right.

Too late now. So close, Martha Jones.

“What’s funny?” she asks, not curious at all. Accusatory. Another thing she has wrong: never tip your hand like that. Oh, the things he could teach her, if only she was willing to learn.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. Wouldn’t that be a good joke: seduce her away, turn her into his own dear little pet. Imagine the look on the Doctor’s face. A more delicious revenge than simple murder, and an even better paradox.

But when he glances over, Martha’s expression is a hard mask. She wouldn’t be easy to win. He should probably stick to the plan; anything else is too much work, too many chances for things to go wrong. But—nothing’s set in stone, yet, and they have a ways to go before his next move. It can’t hurt to play the fantasy out a little. After all, what’s the point of a plan if you don’t toss in a bit of improvisation now and then? 

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles, eyes darting away, bashful as can be. “It’s nothing. Nothing’s funny.”

Martha makes a skeptical sound.

“If you insist, but you’ll laugh. I was just thinking, at least mum will be pleased I’ve finally got a girl to go home with me.” He winces, as if he’s embarrassed at himself. “That wasn’t meant to be a line. I’m not trying…She’s just rather pushy. You know how mums can be. Joke to myself.”

“Yeah, I do know.” But rather than laughing, her face collapses. Ah, yes. Somewhere out there the other version of himself has her family hostage. He’d almost forgotten that.

See? improvisation is fun. Maybe he can get her to cry before the night is over.

After a few beats in which he pretends to have an internal debate with himself, he offers, “I have a very nice bottle of chardonnay that’s been sitting in my cupboard, waiting for a special occasion. Perhaps when we get there we can toast this not being the end of the world?”

“ _That_ sounds like a line.”

“No line, just wine.”

She looks him full on, eyes skimming his face, considering. He clears his throat, glancing back to the road, letting the moment play out as long as she needs it to.

Finally, she clears her throat, too. “I better not. But I could do with a good cup of tea.”

“Ah. They really don’t know how to make it over here, do they?”

“No, they don’t.” For the first time, she sounds genuinely amused.

“Tea, then. We can still toast.”

He catches her smiling to herself as she turns back to her steady watch, searching for enemies that he’s ensured won’t come. If he’s not entirely mistaken, there’s a flush on her cheeks.

Seducing her away from the Doctor may be too ambitious; too ripe with the potential for failure. But seducing her for the night—an amuse bouche of triumph before the grand finale?

Yes, that’s an improvisational rift he can play.

***

His little cottage, barely more than a cabin, does half the seduction for him. It’s tucked away in a grove of oaks off a dirt road; by the time they pull into the drive the sun is slanting through the trees, warm light falling like a halo around the house. As she gets out of the car, Martha stretches and basks in the cool stillness of the oncoming evening, head craning to take in the view.

“It’s lovely out here,” she says, breathing deep.

The Master imitates her breath. He doesn’t have to pretend to enjoy the smell of damp dirt and the first layer of leaves going to rot. There was truth when he said this is his favorite time of year here, though it isn’t for the colors. There’s something beautiful about a whole stretch of land falling to death. “There are advantages to the location beyond paranoia. Now, are you ready for that tea?”

***

He gives her the run of the house as he prepares the tea—establish trust. When he emerges a few minutes later carrying two cups of tea on a serving tray, he finds her perusing the bookshelf in his study. She’s leaning against the small couch that takes up half the room, eyes running rapidly across the titles tucked away behind it. 

He hadn’t originally intended her to be alive to see what he has hidden there, but given his new plan, he can work with her discovery.

“I see you’ve uncovered my secret,” he says, placing the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch.

“Just a bit. Is it because of what’s happened?” He expected her to be on edge after learning her overeager host has an interest in aliens, but she seems relaxed as she comes around to sit, sinking into worn cushions. She picks up the cup and inhales it deeply, satisfied smile spreading across her face. “Just like home.”

 _Home_. As if anywhere on this pathetic excuse for a planet deserves the word. Certainly not that hovel of an island she’s mooning over.

He shakes away the disgust and considers his options: the couch, next to her, a little too close for comfort, or the armchair a respectful distance away. He opts for the armchair and carefully takes his own tea into his hand, balancing the cup on its saucer. He raises it in her direction. “To saving the world.”

They settle back and drink; he barely tastes his, disinterested, but she luxuriates in it, eyes closing as she brings the cup to her lips, taking a long sip. Her nails are chipped short and caked with dirt.

“If you want a shower later, I have spare towels,” the Master offers.

“Trying to get me naked, are you?” But she isn’t offended. Not at all. Flirting, actually. Just a little, but enough to send a flutter of triumph up his spine.

If only she knew who he is. It’s tempting to tell her now, just to watch horror replace her temporary happiness. But that would be a waste, when he can do so much better.

“Still no lines, on my honor.” He holds his free hand up in defense.

“Say that enough times, a girl might start to get offended.”

Oh, yes. He’s got her by the throat already. Now it’s only a matter of squeezing. He lets the moment linger, eyes darting to the floor: another play at embarrassed. He licks his lips.

“To address your earlier question. I have to admit, my interest in aliens goes back much longer, to when I was a child. I always dreamed of meeting one, one day.” He sighs, staring forlornly into his tea. “It’s funny. When I joined MI6 I thought—maybe. Something classified, some secret agency-within-the-agency. Maybe I’ll work my way up. Instead…” He shakes his head. “I never expected this.”

He hears the light _tinkle_ of cup hitting table, the shifting of fabric, and then a hand is warm against his arm. The surprise of the touch almost startles him out of character. He hasn’t felt skin against his skin for more than a handshake in—in so long that he can’t place the when. Long, then.

“Aliens aren’t all bad.” Martha’s voice has gone gentle, as if she’s worried about him. And why wouldn’t she be? He’s painted her the perfect portrait of a dejected loner whose one dream was crushed.

He holds back the flicker of smile that threatens to dance across his lips. She may be defiant and smarter than most of the inhabitants of this planet, but she’s weak to human suffering. That’s how the Doctor likes them.

(Does the Doctor enjoy that it makes them malleable, or simply the worship in their eyes?)

“Really?” The Master still doesn’t look up. He might be milking the dejected act a bit too much, but Martha’s hand doesn’t move. Like a little puppet on strings. How did this woman ever get the better of him? “From where I’m sitting, aliens have been nothing but trouble.”

“The Doctor is an alien.” It’s a confession, but also prayer. Her message of belief, boiled down to a single sentence, all its implications rolling out unsaid: _The Doctor is an alien, and he’ll save us. The Doctor is an alien, and he’s not all bad. He’s wonderful. He’s glorious. Our savior._

The Master’s fingers twitch and flex. He swallows hard and brings his tea to his lips: an excuse to shake her free and mask the flare of frustration that blasts his composure. “You truly believe in him.”

“How could I not? I promise, everything I said back there was true, and more. He’s like…” She stops, weighing her words, as if after walking half the globe to spread her tale she still can’t find a description that does him justice. “The sun that drives the storm away.”

Or a shriveled old raisin at this exact point in time, but who’s counting? Or how about: a lie wrapped in lies wrapped in betrayal and then more lies, so deep no one can say where the truth starts. How about: someone who would abandon him here, force him to go the long way around with righteous fury in her eyes, as if she is any better than he is?

He’s been silent for too long. He needs to say something that won’t betray him. He goes for a simple truth, so obvious it’s practically meaningless. “You love him.”

Martha’s sigh is the kind that comes from so deep in her chest it might as well be her belly; exhaustion in sonic form. “Unfortunately.” She stands, arching her back to stretch. “I’ll take that shower now, I think.”

***

He has several more moves planned to get her into his bed, but she beats him to the punch, slipping into the kitchen while he’s washing up. He turns and nearly drops the cup in his hand when he sees her in nothing but a towel.

He struggles for the right words, but she beats him to that, too.

“What if, hypothetically, your not-lines were lines, and I wanted to take you up on the offer?” Her hand slips to the edge of her towel as she says it, as if all he has to do is say the word and she’ll bare herself for him where she stands.

His cock twitches at the thought. It’s more fun when the hunt lasts longer than this, but there’s no denying the draw of her skin, the legs stretching long under the short towel, the curve of her breast peaking over the top. She’s pretty, as humans go. Very pretty.

Besides, knowing she’s offering herself so willingly to someone she hates has its own appeal.

“I thought you were in love with someone else,” he says, because O would put up just that much more protest.

“Not looking for love, here.” She smirks. “The road can get lonely.”

***

She doesn’t actually drop her towel there in his kitchen, but she does kiss him all the way to the bedroom, hands pulling his clothing off as she goes, lips warm and claiming on his mouth, his neck, beneath his ear. When they get to the bed she pushes him back, laughing when he bounces, old mattress squeaking on impact. It’s strangely normal, when he has murder on his mind; he resists the urge to laugh with her.

And then she’s on top of him, and the towel must slip away, but he can’t see, just feel: flesh against flesh, her chest warm and soft. His skin sings with it.

When her fingers twist into his hair, demanding another fierce kiss, he wonders: is she thinking about the Doctor? Is she ignoring his beard, closing her eyes to imagine a weasel-faced nobody she believes a god? Is it the fantasy of his squeaking voice that makes her moan, hands scrambling for the Master's belt? She whispers “condom?” like a promise, teasing what comes next.

He admires the curve of her backside as she reaches to the drawer he indicates. She has to stretch uncomfortably to pull it open, but she doesn’t allow their bodies to peel apart. As if she craves his warmth; skin-on-skin as surprising for her as it is to him.

Maybe he’s wrong; maybe the Doctor is far from her mind in this moment. Perhaps it’s really what she said: a person gets lonely. Base animal need.

(He wonders: is it the fantasy of golden hair and the gleam of hatred in the eye that’s making _him_ so hard?)

She’s back, kissing again, rocking against him with increasing urgency. His trousers are gone, somehow, pushed down to his knees, briefs with them. She’s efficient; he’d call her brutally so, but there’s nothing brutal in the marks she sucks under his chin or the way her fingers find his mouth, tracing along his lips, up his face, drawing him into another kiss. She really does like kissing, as if she can’t get enough of tongue to lip—closeness to another living thing.

Maybe he’s projecting.

He squeezes her breast, nails digging into the flesh of it until she gasps. This could be the moment, _should_ be the moment. He could slide his hand up, squeeze along her neck instead, end this now, snuff her out—erase her, erase her victory, erase himself in the process. Total paradox. Let it all collapse in on itself.

He should. It would be so easy to steal her breath with his lips on hers, drink in the betrayal on her face, the horror—

A jolt of pleasure knocks the thought from his brain. Her fingers are around his cock; a swift, talented motion covers him in a condom, and then she’s there, warm heat enveloping, wet and welcoming and— _oh_.

He refuses to admit that he’d forgotten how good this simple pleasure can be.

“I’m a little rusty,” she warns.

He’s surprised to find himself answering, “Me, too,” as if he owes her anything. Anything other than payback, of course; payback for an affront against a version of himself he no longer is, for a crime she’s yet to commit.

He grabs her hips and thrusts into her. But that isn’t pain, it’s pleasure, and they may be rusty, but together they find a rhythm.

***

When he finally makes her scream, it isn’t in horror.

***

He thinks about it afterwards, as she drifts asleep beside him (naive, trusting, too trusting). He could get out of this bed, find that knife, or whatever it is she keeps in her pocket. End her with her own weapon. Wake her up first, so that she understands how stupid she was to let down her guard, even for a second. Yes. That would be satisfying.

Not, perhaps, as satisfying as letting the Doctor know what he’d done. To get this revenge would be to end it all. That was always the one flaw in this plan: no one—not the universe, not the Doctor—would realize it was him who brought it all to an end. That seemed immaterial when he plotted it all out, but now that the moment is here, perhaps…

No. No perhaps. It’s still the best plan. Revenge against Martha, revenge against the Time Lords, the Doctor, the whole vast expanse of time and space. It’s all right here, in a single death. Rip everything apart at the seams. Just get up, get the knife. Simple.

But his limbs are heavy and sated, eyes drooping towards sleep. Revenge can wait one more night.

***

When he wakes in the morning, she’s already gone. Nothing but a note:

_My transport to the next town needed to get going bright and early. Didn’t want to wake you. Thanks for hosting—I needed a night like that._

_I hope one day you’ll meet an alien you like. Maybe it will even be the Doctor_.

All he can do is laugh: furious, despairing.

(Relieved.)

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is loved <3


End file.
